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Honing The Edge of Loss
These are days of depletion, of withered hopes, of long hours, of loss. That feeling that the little ship inside me has run onto a jagged shoal and now there is a little slick of acid growing in the waters around it. I have been interviewing for a new job, and have been quite hopeful that I was going to get it. But because of some remarkable bureaucracy jiggles and inflexibility, the moment has passed and I did not get the job. I made the mistake of allowing myself to believe that I was going to be awarded the position, and that belief lightened my mood at work and made…
- Bluebelle, Daily Life, I Never Thought I'd Be In This Situation, Jinx, New Dog, Photographs, Prayers, Reflections, Saints
Special Providence
Shakespeare’s Hamlet tells us that there is special providence in the fall of a sparrow, mirroring our Lord’s words about God’s care for His children. Since this past Saturday, every passing hour shows me that there is also special providence in finding photographs of abandoned dogs in a county animal shelter. Mrs. Orr took Bluebelle to the vet today to get a full checkup, shots, deworming, and whatever else she needed. While she was there, the doc told my wife that he had an opening and would actually be able to spay our little dog today. She jumped at the chance, since the next opening wouldn’t be for almost a…
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Numbering The Stones
If you look carefully at the photo above, you will see a daddy longlegs in the upper left quadrant. I took this picture this past Saturday while Jinx and I were exploring in the little country cemetery near our farm. We were there explicitly to count the gravestones, something I had been meaning to do for some time. The gravestone itself is one of my favorites, the marker of a Jesse Lane, who served the Confederacy in a regiment from his home state. The stone is simple and dignified, like the ones at Arlington National Cemetery, and I usually touch it in passing. On this particular cool day, it radiated…
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Young October
And now September has flown away with the hummingbirds, leaving the young and quiet October as sentry to my observed life. We haven’t yet had our first frost, but the mornings are damp and chilly, and I’ve resumed wearing a hat on my morning rambles with the spotted menace. The spider webs are visible on many plants and structures, dew-decked and glistening like ice wheels. The wildflowers are dying back slowly; this morning Jinx and I passed between rows of late chicory, the vivid blue a contrast to the murky air around us. The leaves on the trees are slowly turning. I’m growing a tiny oak tree in a flowerpot…
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A Wanderer Forever in the Streets of Men
Ever since I discovered him by playing book roulette at the local library, Loren Eisley has been one of my favorite writers. An anthropologist and nature writer, Eisley was “discovered” by Ray Bradbury, who read one of Eisley’s essays in a science magazine and wrote him, saying, “You need to write a book.” Eisley took Bradbury’s advice, and I’m grateful he did. Eisley’s brooding prose saturates my mind every time I pick up one of his books. My favorite of his works is his guarded, haunting autobiography All The Strange Hours: The Excavation of a Life (1975, Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, NY). I want to share a portion of…
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For A Taste
Jinx and I were on the road this morning as the world came alive to the day. I awoke with a gimpy knee for some unknown reason, so I walked slowly behind the dog as he scoured the fields for his meat & drink: delight in all things. I prayed a bit while scanning the horizon. Do you hear me, Sky-decker? Bird-painter? Are you aware of my thoughts, of my misgivings? And I watched Jinx as he loped down the hill and crossed the road in front of me, tail hooked over his back, grinning like a car salesman. He was not fretting about some slight he’d suffered at the…
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Quickly Forgotten
“That is a blessing of bad dreams, they are quickly forgotten.” ― Joyce Carol Oates I was awakened this morning by my wife, who was calling to me and telling me to wake up. Her voice came to me as if from very far away, and I was fighting, kicking my way to the surface, out of the blackness of sleep and the frightening dream that was trying to pull me back down. I had been trying to awaken myself for what seemed like an hour, trying to yell and startle myself into the waking world, but only able to manage a thin whimper. As soon as my wife heard me,…
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All Saints Day
“Mom? Why did Jesus have twelve opossums? I mean, what did he do with them?” — Lizzy Beck This morning during my walk with Jinx, I was struck by how absolutely silent the world was. My own steps were the only sound in the pewter air. It was almost easy to believe that last night the air had been full of ghosts and spirits of ill-will, because the early Sunday hours were so clean, so spotless, so purified. Surely all the saints were watching as I crunched gravel beneath my boots and Jinx’s tail cut the air like a buggy whip. Into my mind came the opening line of Poe’s…
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Consummatum Est
In the last few years before her death, my mother talked to herself. Or rather, she talked to someone. Throughout my life, during her years on this earth, the kitchen was Mother’s place of abiding. She spent most of her waking hours within its warm, productive walls. In those last years before she passed from this life, whenever I was home with her, if I came into the kitchen quietly, I would often find her talking quietly as she worked. It seemed that she was talking to herself, but perhaps she was having a dialogue with God, or with an angel, or with a long-dead loved one. I do not…
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Under A Pink Moon
Have you ever noticed it? The way an approaching change in weather can be detected by all creatures beneath the gaze of heaven? Birds will skim the sweet grass, seeking insects before a drenching rain, and cows will lie down in the fields, resting the joints that the coming showers foretell in them, just as the stooped farmer feels the same ground-glass ache in his knotted knuckles. The very trees seem to face the wind and cross their arms, wondering if this will be the toppling day, or if tomorrow will see them still stretching above the quilt of still things, the soil and dirt that listen, that are aware,…